Chapter 21 Wren
As Wren entered the mouth of the Mishnick Mountains, she felt as though she was stepping into the heart of Eana itself. She tipped her head back, marvelling at the thundering waterfall that gushed down from above. Around her, the walls were hung with the most beautiful tapestries she had ever seen – sweeping landscapes of the surrounding valleys, scattered with imagined green-tailed hawks and golden eagles.
There were everlights everywhere. Flames flickered from hundreds of alcoves that climbed up and out of view. Some even burned behind the waterfall, turning the water to a soft, shimmering silver. The cool air smelled like magic. Wren could feel it tingling all around her, like fireflies flitting just out of reach.
She closed her eyes, and beneath the rush of water, heard the faint echo of music. ‘Someone is singing.’
The young healer, who had introduced herself as Maeva, smiled. ‘Not someone. The mountains are singing.’
‘Do they always do that?’ said Alarik, uneasily.
‘When they’re happy,’ said Maeva. ‘So long as there is harmony here, there is music.’
‘Just like the desert,’ said Wren, seized by a renewed rush of love for her ancient country.
‘Where does the water come from?’ asked Tor, running his hand through the silver mist.
Maeva’s smile broadened. Wren couldn’t help but notice how her gaze lingered on Tor. She ignored the pinch of jealousy in her gut. ‘The magic here works in mysterious ways,’ said Maeva. ‘The water that flows from these mountains is the clearest in the land. It has many healing properties.’
‘Remarkable,’ murmured Tor, who was still studying the mist and not the beautiful healer staring moon-eyed at him.
At the other end of the cavern, narrow passages branched off in several different directions, tunnelling deeper into the mountain. Maeva led them towards the one in the middle, where a young man in matching robes was waiting for them.
He looked a lot like Maeva, with tousled golden hair, round cheeks and sky-blue eyes. A brother, or cousin perhaps. He bowed to Wren but did not speak. She thought, perhaps, he was too shy.
‘Arlo will take you to see the Healer on High,’ said Maeva. ‘But first, we must ask you to lay down your weapons.’
Tor stiffened.
‘No,’ said Alarik.
Maeva cleared her throat, looking suddenly uncomfortable.
‘You see, we are Gevran,’ Alarik went on. ‘And an unarmed Gevran is usually a dead one.’
Maeva looked to Arlo. The young man pressed his lips together and shook his head. He would not let them pass.
‘Is it really necessary?’ said Wren. ‘After what we just encountered in the valley, we’d feel much safer with them in our possession. I can assure you they won’t hurt anyone.’
Maeva was unmoved. ‘It is the rule of the mountains, Your Majesty. The Healer on High asks that you lay down your worldly weapons upon entry here. It has been this way since the dawn of Eana.’ She gestured towards the centre of the waterfall. ‘Look, there. Do you see it?’
Wren squinted. ‘See what?’
‘This is a poor attempt at distraction,’ said Alarik.
‘There’s a sword,’ said Tor, spotting it at once. ‘It’s embedded in the rock behind the waterfall.’
Wren’s eyes widened. Tor was right. There, behind reams of water, she could just make out the golden hilt of a sword. ‘Where did that come from?’
Maeva turned on Wren, her brows raised. ‘Don’t you know the story, Your Majesty?’
Wren bristled, cursing herself for not paying more attention to Thea when she spoke of the legends of old. As much as she loved her grandmother’s wife, Thea did have a way of prattling on, and Wren always found her mind drifting to other matters: food, adventure, the magic of the here and now. ‘Of course I know the story,’ she said, archly. ‘I have just momentarily forgotten the details of it. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.’
Alarik snorted.
She stamped on his foot.
‘Witch,’ he hissed.
‘Remind me,’ Wren urged the healer.
The healer nodded, graciously. ‘The sword you see behind the falls is called Night’s Edge. Legend says it was carved from the underside of the moon and imbued with its ever-glowing light. When the first witch Eana left the stars to come to earth, the moon gifted the sword to her. So that it might light the way ahead, and help her carve out a new home far beyond the edge of darkness.’
Wren couldn’t stop staring at the sword hilt. Her fingers itched to trace it, to hoist Night’s Edge, just as her ancestor once did. This was the closest she had ever come to the first witch, and the nearness of her memory filled Wren with a thrill of excitement.
Maeve went on. ‘When Eana landed in the ocean on her green-tailed hawk, she used her magic to turn the bird into a land that soon filled with rivers and lakes, forests and flowers. But the winds of our young country were strong and the nights were bitterly cold. In the beginning, Eana was alone. She was lonely. And so she sought shelter, a place of peace and healing that would help her prepare for her new life.
‘She stalked the far reaches of her kingdom, until one day, she heard singing. A sound so pure, it brought tears to her eyes. It was neither bird nor human. The mountains were calling her, and so she came.’
Wren glanced sidelong at Tor and Alarik. They were enraptured, leaning into Maeva’s tale as though they had never heard a story before. Even Elske had fallen quiet at their feet, her ears pricked up as if she were listening, too.
‘For three days and three nights Eana travelled through the Mishnick Mountains, searching for a way in, but there was none.’
‘But where there’s a sword, there’s a way,’ murmured Wren.
Maeva smiled. ‘Finally, on the third day, Eana raised her sword, and with Night’s Edge cut an entrance into the mountains. The rock fell away, revealing great caverns that wound deep into the new earth. Her relief was so great that she came to her knees and wept. The tears of Eana gathered and became a waterfall. Ever flowing, ever clear. The mountains became her sanctuary, a sacred place of healing. As a tribute to them and the peace they brought her, Eana left her sword in the rock.’ Maeva gestured once more to the sword glinting behind the waterfall. ‘It remains here to this day.’
‘Impossible,’ breathed Alarik.
‘Every word is true,’ Maeve insisted. ‘It is written in our annals.’
‘Not the magic stuff,’ he said, swishing his hand. ‘Trust me, I’ve seen enough magic to believe in it. What I find impossible to believe is that a sword so powerful has remained there, untouched for so long.’ He exchanged a knowing look with Tor. ‘Surely someone has thought to take it for themselves?’
‘Don’t you have any unruly children here?’ said Tor.
‘Or unruly men?’ said Wren.
Maeva’s laugh echoed back at them from the cavern walls. ‘Many have tried to free the sword,’ she said. ‘But Night’s Edge belongs to the mountain. It is part of the rock. It does not yield.’
Tor cracked his knuckles, staring at the sword as if it were an adversary. ‘I’m sure it would with the right pressure.’
‘You are welcome to try,’ said Maeva, with a smirk that implied she had seen many men like Tor try and fail. ‘But for now, the Healer on High is waiting and she does not suffer lateness.’ She looked apologetically at Wren. ‘Even from queens.’
Wren shooed the men on. ‘Let’s please keep our priorities in order.’
‘I would invite you again to stow your weapons,’ Maeva reminded them. Now that they had heard the story of Eana and her sword, it seemed Tor and Alarik were more receptive to the idea of laying down their own weapons.
Alarik removed his sword and placed it against the cavern wall. ‘This blade is worth more than your precious mountains,’ he warned. ‘If I see so much as a scratch on it there will be trouble.’
Tor placed his sword beside it. Then he removed a knife from his boot and a dagger from his inside pocket.
‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ said Wren, brightly.
Arlo gave her a stern look.
‘What?’ said Wren.
He pointed at the faint outline of the hilt at Wren’s waist.
Tor laughed.
Alarik clucked his tongue. ‘A queen who doesn’t even follow her own rules.’
‘Oh, shut up.’ With little ceremony, Wren hiked up her skirts and grappled for her dagger, trying to free it from the band of her dress. Arlo blushed furiously, averting his gaze.
Alarik watched Wren. ‘You really are feral.’
Tor stepped in front of him, blocking his view.
Wren freed the dagger and chucked it with the others. She refixed her skirts. ‘Happy now?’
Arlo didn’t budge. He pointed at the wolf.
Tor bristled. ‘The wolf is not a weapon.’
‘She is my royal advisor,’ added Wren.
Arlo frowned then reluctantly turned on his heel. They followed him down an arched tunnel lit by everlights. Every so often, the passage branched off into another smaller cavern, where healers milled about, chatting and laughing among themselves.
At last, they came to an entryway, hung with long drapes. Arlo pushed it aside, bidding them to follow him inside. The chamber was high and domed and roughly the size of Wren’s bedroom at Anadawn. The walls were hung with more beautiful artwork while the ground was covered with a decorative rug. The room was lit with so many everlights, it seemed at first to Wren like a place of worship, but there were signs of life here. Several plush chairs were arranged around a wooden table that had been set for tea. The Healer on High stood beside it, teapot in hand. At the sound of their arrival, she set it down gently.
‘Your Majesty,’ she said, dipping her chin. Her voice was low and soothing, like a lullaby. ‘Welcome to the Mishnick Mountains.’
Wren was surprised by how familiar the Healer on High looked. She had light brown skin and warm brown eyes, set in a deeply wrinkled face. Her white hair was arranged in long braids that were twisted and pinned, like a crown, to her head. When she smiled she looked just like Thea.
‘Oh,’ said Wren.
‘The Queensbreath and I are cousins,’ said the Healer on High, reading the surprise in Wren’s eyes. ‘My name is Willa. Thea and I spent our early years together in these mountains. My seer strand is stronger than I’d hoped. I had a sense you might be coming to visit us.’ Her gaze flicked to Alarik. She looked him up and down. ‘Though I did not foresee any Gevrans. Or wolves.’
‘Don’t our ugly green uniforms fool you?’ said Alarik, mockingly.
Willa snorted. ‘Perhaps they would if you weren’t the spitting image of your father, King Alarik.’ She gestured at Tor. ‘And he’s built like an ice bear.’
‘We couldn’t risk the truth being intercepted by someone else,’ said Wren, suddenly unsure of where to begin. ‘You see … uh … we’ve … uh … got ourselves into a … situation.’
‘She got us into a situation,’ Alarik corrected her. ‘I was merely an innocent bystander.’
Wren rolled her eyes. ‘He’s the troublesome one.’
‘Hmm. Yes. I can sense trouble here.’ Willa frowned as she looked between them. Her expression soured, as if she could taste something bitter in the air. Then she looked up at Tor, scanning him from head to toe. ‘You are well,’ she muttered, more to herself than to them. ‘Strong heartbeat. Hmm. Yes. Clear soul.’
Tor raised his brows. ‘Er, thank you?’
‘No need to gloat,’ said Alarik.
‘You may leave us.’ Willa dismissed Tor with a flick of her wrist. ‘Arlo will take you to the dining hall.’
Once Tor and Elske had left, the Healer on High turned her attention back to Wren and Alarik. ‘There is a wrongness here,’ she said, plainly. ‘A shadow that is not welcome.’
Wren looked at Alarik. In his gaze, she saw the reflection of her own fear.
‘Let me see what I can find out.’ Willa took their hands in hers. She turned them over, inspecting their matching scars. Her frown deepened. ‘What have you two been up to … ?’
Wren’s cheeks heated in shame.
‘Why do I have a feeling you already know?’ said Alarik.
Willa didn’t answer him. She closed her eyes, her frown sharpening until her brows touched. She began to mutter, speaking so quickly and quietly it was impossible to make out the words. Wren’s wrist started to sting. She ground her teeth, trying to bear the pain, but tears pricked her eyes.
When she looked at Alarik, his jaw was clenched. ‘Hold your nerve,’ he said, through his teeth.
But Wren’s breath was shallowing in her chest. She could feel the healer prodding at the darkness inside her. Angering it. Black spots swam in the sides of her vision. The pain was taking over. She started to sway.
‘Wren,’ said Alarik. ‘Stay.’
Suddenly, Willa snapped her hands away. ‘A blood spell,’ she said, with such horror she took a step back. ‘And not any blood spell. One to raise the dead. What on earth possessed you?’
Wren glared at Alarik.
‘Is that relevant?’ he said, hotly. ‘It’s done now.’
‘But its shadow remains,’ said Willa. ‘It’s gnawing at your souls.’
Alarik frowned. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of having one.’
‘This is no trifling matter,’ said Willa. She looked to Wren, who was still swaying on her feet. Willa’s face changed from anger to concern. ‘Sit. Sip. And tell me of the spell.’
Wren and Alarik sat down, reaching for a cup of tea. Wren sipped, detecting the faint scent of lavender. She felt herself relax. Beside her, Alarik gulped his tea as if he were dying of thirst.
Perhaps he was in more pain than Wren thought.
As they sat and drank their tea, Wren told Willa all about their ill-conceived blood spell. Every time she caught the healer’s admonishing glare, she felt like an unruly child who had been found stealing apples from the orchard. Perhaps this was why Wren left out the part about accidentally awakening Oonagh Starcrest in the mountains, and only told her about raising Ansel from the dead, which had, of course, turned out to be a colossal disaster.
‘So you cast a blood spell with his blood,’ said Willa, once Wren had finished. She sat back in her chair as if she was exhausted from the mere listening to the tale. ‘That explains the link between you.’
‘Have you ever heard of something like this happening before?’ said Wren.
The healer shook her head. ‘The witches of Eana have long known what happens when you tamper with blood sacrifice. Therein only evil lies.’
‘Right. Of course.’
‘And to even attempt such a dangerous spell with a mortal.’ Willa shook her head. ‘A Gevran. It is unheard of.’
‘What will it do?’ said Alarik, who could no longer hide his anxiety. ‘This thing inside us.’
The healer was silent a moment. ‘I expect it will kill you.’
Wren went rigid in her seat. Hearing the words spoken so plainly and true sent a fissure of alarm through her. ‘But surely you can help us,’ she said. ‘You can heal us, can’t you?’
The Healer on High sighed. ‘Whatever this is, it is beyond even my capabilities.’
‘No,’ said Alarik, leaping from the chair. ‘There must be something you can do.’ He began to pace. ‘If your mountains can sing and your witches can make waterfalls with their tears, then you can heal this sickness inside us. You’re a witch. A healer. The best one in Eana by all accounts. This is what you do. So, do it,’ he growled.
Willa cocked her head. ‘Are you finished?’
‘That depends. Do you finally have something useful to offer?’ he bit back.
‘Alarik!’ snapped Wren. ‘This isn’t helping!’
Willa drummed her fingers against her teacup, waiting for the king to stop pacing and settle down. Wren tugged his sleeve, urging him to sit on the armrest of her chair. She held her hand on his wrist to keep him there.
Willa went on. ‘These mountains are the oldest in all of Eana. They possess a magic that far outweighs my own. It is this magic that you both need.’
‘So, there is a way to healing?’ said Wren, hopefully.
‘There may yet be …’ Willa leaned forward, steepling her hands in front of her lips. ‘You must journey deep under the mountain to the healing baths. To soak in the waters of the mountains is to bathe in the purest and oldest magic in the land. They are, as you say, Eana’s tears.’ She shot a pointed look at Alarik. ‘If you are fortunate, the water will dissolve the darkness inside you and unknit the curse you have placed upon yourselves.’
‘Good. All right,’ said Alarik, perking up once more. ‘For how long?’
‘Until the water runs black.’
Wren frowned. ‘You want us to bathe together?’
Willa crooked a silver brow. ‘Is that somehow more scandalous to you than colluding with a foreign king to cast a forbidden blood spell that once destroyed the very fabric of the kingdom that you are supposed to protect and rule?’
‘Well, not when you put it like that,’ Wren mumbled into her cup.
Alarik rested his hand on her shoulder, his mood appearing to be much brighter now that Willa had offered them a kernel of hope. ‘Wren’s just unsettled because she’s afraid she’s going to fall in love with me.’
Wren spat out a mouthful of tea.
The king laughed. The sound was a pleasant trill of relief, and despite her deep offence, Wren found herself laughing, too.
‘I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you,’ Wren warned him. ‘You’re a Gevran. If you bathe in Eana’s tears you might curl up in smoke.’
‘And you might burst into flames,’ he shot back.
As the Healer on High watched them bicker, a curious look dawned in her eyes. Wren wondered if Willa could sense something else stirring between them, but she was too afraid to ask.
‘Right then, witch,’ said Alarik. ‘Let’s get this over with.’